Private Eye Four-Pack, page 47
“My God,” she said, and her voice resonated inside my head, bouncing off jagged peaks and canyons that hadn’t been there before. “Are you all right?”
“You ready for that cup of coffee now?” I said, then laughed, which made my head hurt. Always on. Ever the performer.
“You’ve got blood all over you,” she said.
“Is it mine?”
“Whose should it be? We need to get you to a hospital.”
“No. Wait.” I sat up and took inventory. Moved my arms and torso. Took a deep breath. Dull pain in the ribs. Probably bruised. One ear hurt, and there was soreness in my back. I put a hand to my head and felt a sticky substance. Blood. Not mine, though. At least I didn’t think it was mine. “You see any cuts on my head?” I asked.
She examined my hairline and looked closely at my face. “Some small cuts. Some abrasions. Nothing deep. But you need to see a doctor to make sure. The hospit—”
“No,” I said. “No hospital.” I wasn’t being stubborn. Well, maybe a little. But I knew when I was hurt badly enough to need a doctor. I’d been hit harder and more often on several occasions. But it had been some time since anyone had handled me so easily. They were teaching me. Little demonstrations. First Chick, then me. I didn’t like it but didn’t know what I could do about it. “I’m okay. Nothing broken. No major cuts. I’ll be sore in the morning, that’s all.”
She helped me stand. There was a roaring in my ears, like the sea in a conch shell, and I sucked in my breath at the pain in my ribs. It was annoying, not intolerable.
“You see a big guy?” I asked. “Bald head?”
“There were two of them. He was one of them.”
“What did the other one look like?”
“Skinny guy. Needed a shave. Arm in a cast.” Had to be my buddy Luke.
“You recognize either of them?”
“Yes. They work for Mr. Roberts.”
“Why would an upstanding businessman like Roberts employ so many thugs?”
“I don’t know what their job description is. I’m just a secretary. I don’t know everything that’s going on.”
I let that pass. “Was the big guy bleeding?”
“Yes.”
“Good.”
She gave me a severe look. Even in the weak light the cheekbones were wonderful. “That make you happy?”
“It’ll do,” I said. “For now. How did you get here?”
She looked blank for a moment. “What?” she asked, balking. She’d heard the question. I repeated it.
“I was driving by and saw you fall against the car. Why were those men beating you up?”
“I voted for McGovern in ’72.”
“I ought to leave you here in the street,” she said.
“But you didn’t.”
“No.” Her eyes softened. “I didn’t. We need to get you home if you’re not going to the hospital. Where do you live?”
“I’m all right.” I took a couple of steps, swaying as I did. “Maybe not.”
“I’ll take you home,” she said.
“I can drive myself.”
“You’re stubborn.”
“But I’m very clean.”
“I’ll follow you.”
“It’s a long way.” She turned on her heat-vision eyes. Not going to win this one. “Okay,” I said. “Good idea.”
It was dark when we arrived at the cabin. She helped me out of the truck and into the house. I didn’t fight it. I was exhausted. My ribs were on fire, and my face was scraped raw and it hurt. I had some Percodan I used occasionally for my knees and an old shoulder injury. Football players are the biggest prescription junkies in the world. Couple of tabs and I’d be copacetic. I didn’t usually use drugs, but it would stop the pain and help me sleep.
She helped me to the couch, and her perfume filled my head. She was beautiful. Glorious. I felt the tug of her. Steady, Wyatt. She walked behind the kitchen bar and made a couple of drinks. I smelled the heady wood aroma of bourbon. On the rocks. She brought them over, and I shook my head. A mistake. “Just water,” I said.
She drank part of her drink, then poured mine into her glass and walked to the kitchen to get a glass of water. While she did that I walked to the bathroom. I opened the medicine cabinet, reached inside it to get a brown, opaque bottle, shook two tablets into my hand, and returned to the den.
“What are those?” she asked.
“Painkillers. I couldn’t find a bullet to bite.”
“You said you were okay.”
“I am. Big day tomorrow.”
She brushed back the hair from my forehead. “Why were they trying to hurt you?”
Back to that question. You’re getting suspicious in your old age, Storme. “I’m not sure,” I said, being evasive. It didn’t make me feel gallant, lying to her, but I didn’t really know her, though I liked what I had seen so far.
“People don’t get mugged for no reason. You must’ve done something.”
“Can’t think what it might be.”
“You don’t trust me,” she said.
“Do you trust me?”
She considered me with her emerald eyes. A smile grew in them. “You’re very evasive.”
“And you’re very inquisitive. And intelligent. I like intelligent. You’ve also done work besides secretarial.” For a brief moment her eyes looked panicked. Maybe my imagination. Why did it seem as if everyone I met had something to keep back? Or maybe everybody does have something to keep back and I didn’t realize it. Things like girls dressed like men, but who could make you just as dead as a man could. Little girls with guns, on another planet, in another dimension, gnawing at my dreams, at my conscience.
“Most people fall apart when they see blood, or men running from the scene of an assault. Not you.” And why had they run away? I wondered. “You were composed. Checked me for injuries. Knew what to look for. Followed me home.”
“So I could seduce you,” she said. She smiled, then searched my eyes.
“Flattering, but I don’t think that’s your entire motivation. You knew there was a possibility I was injured worse than I thought. But how could you know I am two hundred pounds of tungsten steel? Or that I still have a hundred thousand miles left on my warranty?”
“Stay away from them,” she said. She reached out and took my hand in hers. Then she sat on the couch, pulling me lightly down with her. The touch of her hand had the warmth of friendship yet the heat of an effortless sexuality. Smooth, dark skin. Health that radiated like a highly tuned engine. Chopin’s “Heroic” was playing on the stereo. “Stay away from Starr Industries. You don’t know what you’re getting into. They are evil men.”
“What’s going on at Starr? Do you know something you’re not saying?”
“No. I just know you should avoid them.”
“Who is the big guy?”
“If I tell you, how do I know you won’t go looking for him?”
“I’m going to look up a guy big as a rhino?”
“Yes. I believe you would.”
“I’ve already met him. Even know his name. But why is he working for Roberts?”
“I guess I could ask why you’re so interested in Starr Industries.”
“You could ask,” I said.
She smiled. “You may remember Cugat as the Sultan. Sultan Cugat. Real name is Faron Cugat. Pro wrestler. Had to quit when he nearly killed a promoter who owed him money.”
Faron Cugat. He’d been with Atlanta for a couple of years. I remembered him now, because he was big even by NFL standards. Six feet nine inches and 325 pounds of bad attitude. Drummed out of the league for testing positive—steroids, cocaine, booze—anything he could inject, absorb, or swallow. A huge pharmaceutical test animal. During a preseason game he’d instigated a brawl with our offensive line. It took several minutes to subdue him. None of his teammates came to his rescue. Gerald Robinson, a friend of mine who played for Atlanta, told me after the game, “Cugie so full of Peres and ’roids, babe, you coulda performed eye surgery on him at halftime and he wouldn’t even blink.”
After leaving the NFL he’d wrestled as the Sultan. Turban on his shaved head and a harem of girl attendants. Silly stuff. But it is a mistake to underestimate pro wrestlers. The wrestling is fake, but they are still amazing athletes.
“Why were you driving down that street?” I asked Tempestt. “Nothing there but closed shops and bars. Not exactly on your way home.”
“Time for you to get some sleep,” she said.
Then we were quiet two beats too long. An awkward two beats. Chopin was building in the background. A man and a woman alone. Miles alone, and aware of each other. Feeling the presence of one another. She touched my cheek. Her hand was light and healing against my raw skin. She kissed me. I let her. I fell for miles into her scent, her soul, felt her firmness against me. We parted and I held her at arm’s length, where I could look at her. She said, “I’ll help you to bed.”
I didn’t argue. I could’ve navigated it by myself but enjoyed being babied by this beautiful woman. She walked me to my room. I sat on the bed and she sat beside me. Kissed me again, and again I allowed it. Pulled her to me. The Percodan and events of the day started to work on me. I lay down. She put her head on my chest, and I fell asleep with the scent of her buzzing in my head.
But I dreamed of Sandy.
FOURTEEN
I woke to the smell of bacon and coffee. The crimson digits of the clock radio read 6:47. The residue of the Percodan had settled into my joints, creating a drugged lethargy. Still had my clothes on, but she must have removed my shoes. I wandered into the front room. Tempestt had set the table for two. Scrambled eggs, bacon, and pancakes on the table. It looked and smelled wonderful. There was a dull ache in my ribs and head.
“Good morning,” she said. “I hope you didn’t mind me staying overnight.” She was wearing one of my sweatshirts and a smile. Her long, smooth-muscled legs disappeared into the ribbed border of the sweatshirt. It made her appear smaller, lighter. Never looked that good on me.
“Good cooks and people who save my life are always welcome,” I said. I was a little uncomfortable. The morning light made me think of Sandy. “I…a…where did you—”
“In the guest bedroom, prudence,” she said, but smiled. “Your virtue is intact. Darn it. Maybe you won’t be so lucky next time.”
I sat down at the table. I was famished. Hadn’t eaten for eighteen hours. She was a good cook. Knew how to make good coffee, also. Not too strong, not too weak. Just right. She was just right, too. Maybe I would marry her, though that might hamper my relationship with Sandy. I liked her. I don’t shop for women. I looked for people. I’m no feminist sympathizer. There were few of the good ones of either sex; people with the right combination of courage, compassion, and morality. Intelligence. And intelligence is more than acquired facts and knowledge. Intelligence comes from insight, from inner courage, experience, and conviction. People talk about what they want and who they are; few are concerned with duty and responsibility—the things we must do to be what we are. The things that separate us from animal instincts and lust and greed, that make us human, flawed though we all may be.
“You’re a good cook,” I said, between bites. She had great legs. Magnificent legs. I tried not to wolf my food. Maybe if I could distract her momentarily, I could stick it all in my mouth at once. I made a conscious effort not to smack my lips. The essence of her was powerful.
“Thank you. I do several things well, but I’m getting no offers around here.” She smiled a brilliantly wicked smile. Dazzling. She took a nibble of bacon. So much girl, such small bites.
“The best things shouldn’t be rushed,” I said. “Are you free this evening?”
“What did you have in mind?”
“Dinner. Stimulating conversation. Dancing ’til dawn. Maybe a little more Chopin by the fireplace.”
“A little wine, maybe?”
“I don’t partake.”
“Maybe you should.”
I looked into her jeweled irises. I really liked her. She was special. I enjoyed her company. There was something wrong with a business where someone with her talent was only a secretary, which made me wonder about something else. So I asked.
“What’s a nice girl like you doing—”
“Working for scum like Roberts?” she finished for me. I nodded. “Won’t be for much longer. I’ll be leaving soon.”
“He know that?”
“No. I hope not, anyway.” Strange answer. “Not yet, anyway. You finish eating. Eat all you want. I’ve got to get to work.” She walked over and wriggled into my lap, leaving no room for appetite, though I was still hungry. She kissed my eyes and then my mouth, then stood up. Always leave ’em wanting more, I guess. I grabbed her wrist and pulled her back. Kissed her again. What to do with her?
She leaned back. “Tonight,” she said. “I have to go now.” She left me to change clothes. I didn’t know how she expected me to eat if I couldn’t swallow. There was a knot in my throat and a larger one in my chest. I was confused, uncertain.
I finished breakfast and was rinsing the dishes when she came out of the guest room, wearing last night’s clothing. She walked over to me. She smelled of soap and musk.
“God, you’re cute when you do domestic chores,” she said.
“I have a varied repertoire. Oughta see me unclog a pipe. Pure artistry.”
“Gotta go, slugger,” she said. “You need to get something on that scrape. Stay out of street fights. Please take care of yourself.” She was telling me something or trying to tell me something, but it lay between the lines of what she was saying. Obscure, yet plaintive. She was worried about something. Something about me. It was in her voice and eyes.
“I’m a big boy,” I said.
“And I’m a big girl.” She touched my face. “This seems a little foolish, but sometimes people aren’t what they seem or what they wish.”
“And sometimes they are more than what is seen.” I thought about it. Like Sandy, Tempestt wasn’t telling me everything. I said, “What are you holding back from me?”
We looked at each other. “Maybe nothing,” she said. “What are you holding back from me?”
“I’m in love with someone,” I said. “There’s nothing I can do about that.”
“I know.” She reached up and adjusted my collar. “And there’s nothing I can do about what you can’t know.”
“I like you,” I said.
She smiled, then kissed me on the cheek and said, “Until tonight, then.”
She opened the door and left, and the room diminished with her departure. I looked at the door and the finality of its closing. For three months my heart had lain dormant, cobwebbed and echoing the hurt of each beat. I felt something for Tempestt. But I had no illusions about being what she was looking for. I wasn’t. But maybe I could survive without Sandy. I didn’t want to and hoped I would never have to, but it was a comfort to have hope that I could. I was uncertain of the direction of my relationship with Tempestt. I knew where the stop sign was, but not where the curves would be leading to it, or if I would see them in time.
Nothing is for sure.
I cleaned the dishes and thought about Chick’s predicament. I wasn’t worried about him but was ill at ease with my inability to help. I called a lawyer I knew. George Fairchild. George did some legal work for the Kansas City Chiefs. He was a friend. He’d helped me negotiate my first pro contract. Pointed out where I was selling myself short. I was young and eager to sign anything. Trusting. I grew out of it soon enough. They were good at teaching you that. “I just want to play football,” I told George.
“And you will,” said George. “But cheaply gained is cheaply prized. The more they invest initially, the greater will be their desire to see you succeed. Nobody likes to think they got a bad deal. And you’re not a used car.”
George Fairchild was a straight shooter in a profession where his colleagues shot from around corners and hid behind the law and used “the law” as a sick synonym for the word “justice.” I liked him. And he owed me a favor. George had a daughter who lived in Boulder. She was pretty. And smart. And talented in the area of business acumen. She was a loan officer at a bank. A man she had turned down for a loan was annoying her, following her to work, calling her at work and at home. Sitting in his car outside her apartment at night. The police said they could do nothing until he did something. George asked me to help. I turned it around on the guy. I started following him. Calling him. Sitting in my car outside his apartment. Finally, I convinced him. He became cooperative. I’m a convincing guy. George appreciated it.
When I called Fairchild and explained the situation he was glad to help. “I’ll drive down,” he said. George was a busy man. He could have sent one of the young lawyers who worked for him and I would’ve been satisfied. But George was from the old school. “Should be there by late morning. Unless he murdered the governor’s daughter I’ll have him out by early afternoon. If he murdered the governor’s daughter it’ll be early evening.”
I thanked him and hung up, feeling a little better.
I called Jill Maxwell again and got the recorder again. Didn’t leave a message. The police didn’t have a thing, yet every time I turned around, someone threw an obstacle in my path, or, as it turned out, in Chick’s path.
Who shot at us? And why? Roberts? I didn’t think so. If Roberts had sent someone they would have been better marksmen. It was sloppy and amateurish.
I finished the dishes and showered. Did some household chores. I was pulling on a pair of boots when the phone rang. I picked it up.
“It’s me,” I said. “Start talking.”
“Need to talk to you, Storme,” said a voice. It was reedy and smothered as if the caller were talking through a straw. How did he get this number?
“Who is this?”
“I know about the marijuana field.”
“What do you know?” I asked.
“Not on the phone. I’ll meet you.”
“When and where?”
“Got a pen?”
